Wild
by Cheerie Mai
Summary: She is unlike anything he has ever seen.
1. First Meeting

He is mildly surprised when he enters the cockpit and finds her in the pilot seat hastily attempting to plot new coordinates on the control panel. It is instantly clear to him she has a great of experience with airships as she swiftly sets a course for Bhujerba. He smiles.

"Well, hello."

She is unlike anything he has ever seen: a wild, beautiful thing.

Her skin is the rich color of cocoa and her soft, white hair is an untamable mass of gleaming waves, pulled up and flowing over the exposed skin of her back. The tall, white rabbit ears on the crown of her head, slid through an intricate iron helm are new to him as well. And when she turns, startled and ashamed that she was so careless and her sharp ears had not caught him, he finds himself fascinated by the way her hair curls around her face. He nearly thinks she reminds him of a lion.

He smiles at her armor, or the lack thereof; the leather bodice that uplifts her breasts, and the shimmering, translucent silk that does little to hide her smooth, taut belly; the armor on her loins that scarcely covers her bottom. And the labyrinthine bracers running from her firm, brown thighs all the way down to her ankles astound him. Her cute little rabbit toes and deadly clawed fingers are almost too much. She truly is a beast.

He is baffled by her tall, double-heeled stilettos, wondering how she can possibly walk on their spiked points. But her graceful, fluid movements as she rises from the pilot seat quickly disprove his suspicions.

He loves the way her fierce ruby eyes fill with uncertainty as she realizes she has been caught red-handed attempting to commandeer his airship. He thinks for a moment she might back down and curl up in fright, until she snarls and he finds himself held at arrow-point. But he only grins and holds up his hands in surrender. She raises a brow suspiciously, analyzing him, refusing to lower her weapon.

Her voice is touched with a melodic, foreign hiss as she speaks in clear, refined English.

"Leave, or die."

She nigh looks shocked when he chuckles pleasantly and shakes his head.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, love."

He hears the bowstring tighten as she pulls the arrow back a little further.

"And why is that?" she hisses.

"Well," he smiles, "despite your grace in operating an airship, how exactly do you plan to get out of port?"

Her confidence seems to waver, and he knows she hasn't given this as much thought as she should have.

"Certainly you're aware they'd never grant the ship permission to depart when it's not being flown by the registered pilot. Besides, it's rather difficult to fly an airship single-handed."

"Not as difficult as you might think," she replies with a dark smile. "Your hume machinery comes as naturally to me as breathing."

"So I've noticed," he smirks, "but I doubt you've ever flown anything like the _Strahl_."

"I have piloted more Archadian airships of this class than summers you have weathered," she snaps, baring her teeth. "Yours can be no different."

He only smiles at her in return.

"I'm sure you have, for I haven't seen as many summers as I'd like and the greater majority of Archadian airships function on a very similar playing field. However, I'm afraid you might struggle with the upgrades I've made since saving her from the scrap heap."

Her eyes immediately lose their ferocity as she realizes this hume has been one step ahead of her all along and that now she will probably be arrested. But still, she holds him at the point of her arrow. She could still kill him and easily slip away unnoticed.

"But," he continues brightly, lowering his hands and pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

He opens it and holds it out to her, still grinning, "Since you seem so eager, I may as well inform you I've been looking to hire a copilot."

She eyes the flyer skeptically, turning her nose up and refusing to make eye contact.

"So, are you interested?"

He watches smugly as she still refuses to lower her weapon.

"I know something of your people," he tempts her. "You are bound to your wood, and to leave is to never return."

"What do you care for that?" she hisses, ever the predator.

He steps around her notched bow and brings his face mere inches from hers, "I _don't _care, if you must know."

Her eyes are burning when he gazes at her.

"_But_, I can almost _taste_ your thirst for a place to belong and you would make an incomparable leading lady on this ship."

Hesitantly, she drops her bow and removes the arrow.

"You may have experienced a great deal more of the world than I have, but you most unfortunately have not yet found a place to call your own."

Her lip curls bitterly and she plants a hand on her hip, "Your point?"

Her free hand grips the arrow so tightly he can hear the thick bolt of wood splinter beneath the pressure - something that makes him admittedly nervous. He clears his throat anxiously and tugs at his collar, choosing his words carefully.

"I would like to invite you to call the _Strahl_ your home," he offers, his voice dripping chivalry, "if you find it suits you."

She seems only mild surprised at his proposal, smiling gingerly as she restocks her arrow and slings her bow back over her shoulder all in once graceful motion.

"You saved her from the Archadian scrap heap, yes?" she asks pointedly, smoothing her hand across the back of the copilot seat.

He smiles arrogantly, "The Draklor Laboratories scrap heap, if you must know."

She nods slowly, taking in the rest of the cockpit.

"She has been well cared for," she observes.

There is something in her tone that worries him, but the overwhelming urge to gloat about his beloved ship smothers the concern and he blindly opens his mouth to continue lording only to be cut off by the silvery hiss of her voice.

"But," she continues, observing him mischievously, "she still needs work. Your affinity for performing proper maintenance is clearly lacking."

In spite of his knee-jerk instinct to jump to his own defense, he realizes that not only has she accepted his offer, but has outwitted him in doing so. Merciful heavens, a woman skilled with both airships and her tongue; he didn't know such perfection existed.

"Well then, it's settled," he says triumphantly, swallowing what little pride she has left him with as he folds the flyer back up and stuffs it in his pocket. "Now, we'd better head back to the SandSea and take down the rest of those bills, which reminds me: might I ask the name of my new copilot?"

He is oozing charm as he gives her his most dashing smile.

She effortlessly ignores him, baring her teeth in a wicked smile.

"Fran," she answers.

He needs no invitation to take her hand in his and still smiling boldly lightly brush his lips across her knuckles, to which she continues smiling, less than bothered.

"Welcome aboard the _Strahl_, Miss Fran. My name is Balthier."

He looks up at her with roguish eyes, "I'll be your captain."


	2. First Glance

He vividly remembers the first time he ever caught her staring, and he is rather pleased with himself for even glimpsing her discreet admiration. To think, that one as lovely as she would be eyeing him. Despite his own dashing good looks, he knows well that he is nothing compared to her unearthly beauty.

He is almost flattered until her crimson eyes dart away when she realizes he has noticed. A part of him thinks to jest, or tease her with a smart remark, but he only smiles. He can tell she is not at ease now, even though she does not squirm or fidget as most would. There is not a single tensed muscle under her flawless cocoa skin. She sits in the copilot seat beside him, focused on the controls, as cold and unmoving as stone. It had not taken him long to adjust to her indifference and frequent lack of emotion or opinion. Now, he more often than not found her tranquility rather pleasant.

He casts another glance in her direction, but finds her only adjusting the levels of the engine output. And when she looks to him with as much apathy as ever in those ruby eyes, he nods slightly and climbs the _Strahl_ to a higher altitude. Once he does, she returns to gazing silently out the windshield at the bright blue abyss spanned out before the airship, dotted with sparse clouds. He sighs contentedly and leans back in the pilot seat, closing his eyes as he props his feet on the control panel and folds his arms behind his head.

He listens to her rise from her seat followed by the sound of her stilettos clicking on the floor as she heads towards the rear of the cockpit. And suddenly, as if she had never moved in the first place, the room falls silent.

Even though it has already been six months, she had earned his full trust since day one, so he shrugs it off and relaxes further into his seat, feeling a doze coming on.

It is not until he is on the very brink of sleep that a soft rustling rouses him. He cracks an eye open, and barely catches the soft flick of her ponytail as she straightens herself that fraction of an inch. She is once again beside him in the copilot seat as though she had never gotten up.

'What's this?' he muses, 'Staring again?'

He grins to himself; he should tease her about this, but thinks better of it. Besides, he thinks, settling back into his seat, she never says a word when she catches _him_ staring.


	3. First Touch

He looks to the dying sky, and then to her. The soft golden color of twilight glows suits her well: soft and inviting on her brown skin. The glimmer of the falling sun in her crimson eyes is astonishing. She is beautiful whenever he looks at her, but something about the warm gleam of sunset is simply ravishing on her, and he longs to reach out and touch her to see if she is truly as soft and warm as she looks.

She is seated next to him at their small table in the SandSea, legs crossed and a glass of white wine glimmering on the table in front of her that she has yet to touch. He has already downed three and is moving on to his forth. These light wines never bothered him much. He still feels just as sober as when he walked into the tavern. He watches her stare passively at the setting sun, untroubled by the loud bustle of Rabanastre. She is perfectly still save the gentle, minute rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. He is amazed at her ability to keep such countenance.

When she glances over at him after a moment, he smiles flirtatiously and raises his wine glass to her, swallowing the rest of it in one go. She nods indifferently and returns her attention to the coming evening. He wishes she would acknowledge him more, perhaps grace him with the slightest of smiles rather than a nod or a raised brow. At times he wonders if she regards him as little more than a nuisance.

Setting his glass down on the table, he leans back and stretches, stifling a yawn.

He finds himself unable to keep his eyes from drifting over the soft copper glow of her shoulders. He often ponders if she comprehends how lovely she is. How can she not? He sees the jealousy in women's eyes when she walks through the bazaar at his side. Those were the times he wished to slide an arm around her waist or shoulders, to rest his fingers on her soft hips or give her arm a gentle squeeze. And when he hears the hushed whispers of folk on the streets or in shops or taverns, murmuring about her 'coldness', he is wont to turn and ask them if they are blind and cannot see the warm glow of her brown skin. But more so, he wishes to touch that skin and see if it warms his fingers when the rains come and the two sit in the cockpit of the _Strahl_, watching the thunderstorms rage just outside the windshield as he switches the ship into autopilot. And now as he stands from their table, he decides that it might be a risk worth taking.

Moving to stand beside her chair, he places his hands on her shoulders, and quietly whispers they should be on their way. Leaving one hand to revel in the warmth of her body, he uses the other to toss a few gil on the table before offering that hand to help her from her seat. Hesitantly, she places her clawed hand in his as she stands. He smiles as they exit the tavern patio, his hands still tingling with her body heat and the feel of her skin as she takes the lead back to the Aerodrome. He stuffs them in his pockets and casts a quick glance at the last sliver of the sun that is slipping behind the royal palace. He is in no hurry to get back tonight.


	4. First Mistake

He was sure there would be one eventually, but he didn't find it one bit fair that it happened like that.

He cannot believe how badly he feels the need to shower, as though he hadn't done so in a week when he'd only stepped out of one four hours ago. He despises when she claims it's his turn to take care of the _Strahl's_ maintenance. After all, it isn't his fault his hands aren't as skilled in said department as hers. And now, after thrice the amount of time it would have taken his partner, he is covered from head to toe in grease, oil, dirt, grime, and Ultima knows what else?

He grumbles to himself as he stomps through the airship toward the bathroom. He throws the door open and stops short, feeling as though he's just had the wind knocked out of him. He stands there, staring like an idiot at his rather startled Viera partner who's just had her bath interrupted. He feels himself go slack-jawed.

He is mystified by the way her hair swirls around her, floating on the surface of the water like mist, at the way the hot bath water makes steam rise off her skin. Her sopping bangs are slicked over her face and beads of water cling to her eyelashes. The water trails over her body in the most erotic of ways, sliding down the valley between her breasts and over her bare shoulder blades. Her entire lower body, all but her knees, is submerged in the bath, but he can still follow the slender curve of her legs, the swell of her hips, and the roundness of her bottom beneath the clear water. Even though her scant leather armor leaves very little to the imagination, this is still the first time in which he has ever seen her completely exposed.

He realizes now that she is staring at him peculiarly and he suddenly feels very self-conscious of his black grease-stained skin and clothes and the unruly state of his hair. He opens his mouth to make a joke about bathing together to save on water supply, but closes it with an audible snap before he embarrasses himself further, especially considering the currently rather snug condition of his trousers. He clears his throat and straightens himself in an attempt to regain his composure before looking her square in the eye.

"I finished the maintenance."

Before she can respond, the bathroom door has slid shut behind him, and he has hurried back down the hallway to take refuge in his bedroom. No, he thinks. Not fair at all.


	5. First Embrace

It was their most successful raid yet. He cheerfully jokes that the _Strahl_ might collapse under the weight of the loot, and she regards him with a pleasant glimmer in her eyes. He almost can't believe they actually sacked a branch of the Archadian treasury _and_ escaped in one piece.

He is all smiles as he juggles a diamond the size of his fist and asks her if there happens to be anything in particular she'd like him to purchase with their newfound riches, but she only shakes her head in the negative and returns to staring distantly out the window at the black Rabanastran night sky where he has activated the cloaking device and anchored them for the night. He sets the gemstone down, rather disappointed that she refuses to let him spoil her, but thinks little of it as he does not intend to listen to her anyway. But, what to buy her? Perhaps a bow and quiver from that new line of weaponry he has caught her eyeing as of late. After all, his lovely Viera partner deserves nothing but the best. But, there are times he wishes to shower her with less practical gifts such as jewelry or clothing, even though she refuses wear naught but her armor. Maybe something she could wear to bed since he often wonders what she sleeps in, if anything at all. He grins to himself as he thinks on how tantalizing she would look in one of those tiny, white silken nightgowns that were trimmed with lace he saw in the window of a lingerie store the other day.

"I believe tomorrow I'll be going shopping," he smiles in her direction, flipping a gil as if he were playing heads-or-tails.

She only remarks him with cautious eyes before she shrugs without bias and turns away. She is standing in the center of his room, her back to him and a hand on her hip, looking rather disinterested in their spoils and unconcerned with their success.

In a situation like this, her impassivity usually would've put him out, but he only beams and tosses the coin over his shoulder, too exuberant to care what it hits or where it lands. He finds himself sprinting across the room and ambushing her from behind, wrapping his arms around her middle and lifting from the floor. He holds her to him and swings her around in circles in the most ecstatic of embraces, laughing hysterically in his own exhilaration. Disoriented, she grasps his forearms tightly, clinging to him as he whirls her around. And when at least he puts her down, releasing her from his arms, she turns to gaze at him, perplexed and stunned. He is still laughing and whooping at the top of his lungs, smiling wider than she has ever seen before. His eyes even begin to water from mirth. And as she stares at him as though he has truly lost all sanity, he realizes, as he was sifting through their loot earlier hunting for the thing of most value, that it is standing right in front of him. She gasps, startled as he tugs her into his arms again, winding them around her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck as if to try and stifle his laughter against her skin. To hell with his aching sides.


	6. First Regret

He paces his bedroom, contemplating how to go about breaking the mirror so his reflection can't laugh at him anymore. He feels as though he'll go insane if the face he sees is his father's every time he looks into the glass, if he sees the Judge's helm whenever he closes his eyes. Has he just been running all these years?

His bedroom is a ruin; hard sought treasures scattered to the floor - some even broken - expensive sheets ripped from the bed, priceless lamps shattered, furniture mutilated. He can't even focus through the rage, the blood boiling in his veins as he lifts a silver hand mirror and hurtles it into the wall, watching it burst into a thousand glimmering fragments. He knots his fists in his hair and curses loudly, glaring once again at the bejeweled standing mirror they had stolen from the treasury of Nalbina not but a few months ago. But, it's the Archadian doctor who stares back, eyes crazed as he smirks at his son.

He cannot control himself any longer, throwing his fist into the glass, feeling it crack and break into pieces under the impact. And when he pulls his already aching hand away, it is shredded and blood pumps violently from the wounds, staining his shirt cuffs. And still he feels naught but anger. He feels tears dribbling down his cheeks as he sinks to the floor, clutching his maimed hand. And suddenly she is there in the doorway, gazing tranquilly at the ravaged state of his room. And then she looks to him, broken down in front of the fractured mirror. Silently, she moves across the room to kneel beside him, a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Balthier."

He whirls around half-crazed, shrugging away from her touch.

"Don't touch me."

Her eyes are soft and concerned, though her face does not show it as she tries again, "Balthier."

"Get out."

She places a hand against his cheek and strokes the bone with her thumb, ignoring his vile mood and harsh words. He relaxes only mildly, enjoying her touch, but underneath he can still feel his temper seething. A part of him wishes to reach up and caress her face as well, but he fears the blood on his knuckles might stain her perfect snowy hair, or smear on her flawless brown skin. But he cannot help himself as he traces her jaw line with his fingertips. Her brow furrows when she sees his blood-soaked sleeves and torn up knuckles. Taking his hand in hers, she studies the glass shards embedded in the tattered flesh and he hisses in pain when she pulls a large fragment lodged deep in the wound.

"Dammit, Fran!" he snarls, wrenching his hand away.

Instead of trying to reason with him that they need to do something about the injury, she says nothing and rises to her feet, staring down at her broken partner.

"I am sorry."

The hurt in her eyes is evident as she turns and leaves him kneeling on the floor before the shattered mirror, cradling his bleeding fist. He stares after her, suddenly despising himself with an even greater passion. What in Ivalice has he just done?


	7. First Apology

He comes to her later that night, when the sky has grown dark and he can count the stars from his window. He trudges down the hallway, only imagining how he must look: black circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, auburn hair in a disarray, darkened spots of dried blood staining his clothes, shirt indecently unbuttoned, his ruined knuckles clotted with coagulated blood and shards of mirror still beset in the raw, pink flesh. So with his good hand, he activates the cockpit door, and as it opens, the first thing to catch his eye is a pair of tall white ears peeking out from the copilot seat. He aches with the guilt of acting so cruel, of letting his own problems get the best of him once again. He hadn't meant to be so harsh.

He thinks perhaps she has fallen asleep when she doesn't turn or speak as the door closes behind him. But as he stands in the doorway, he can see her reflection in the darkened windshield, and her crimson eyes are very much awake. His guilt roots him to the floor where he stands as he watches her toy with a white lock of hair that is blemished red with blood.

"Fran… I - I'm sorry."

Nothing.

"I don't know what came over me."

Nothing.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

For another moment, she is silent, and the minute twitching of her ears is the only movement she has to offer. Now thinking that she refuses to forgive him for treating her as such, he feels the guilt rising in the pit of his stomach again and the tears springing uninvited to his eyes. He stiffens, curling his hands into fists despite the fire that spreads rapidly up his right arm and the fresh blood that now drips from his fingers as he stares spitefully at the floor.

"I despise myself."

"Are you finished now?"

When he looks up, stunned, she is standing in front of him without him ever having heard her move, staring at him indifferently, unheeding of his apology. She takes him by his good hand and leads him back to the pilot seat. He sits down submissively as she kneels in front of him, lifting his bloodied hand and examining it carefully. He finds himself drawn back to her bloodstained ringlet of hair, gently taking it between the fingers of his good hand.

"I did this, didn't I?"

He winces as she extracts a fragment of the mirror from his knuckles, returning his attention to his bloody ruin of a hand.

"It will wash out."

She continues her work in silence, and he flinches each time she pulls another shard from the injury until she is finally finished removing what she can of the glass and is cleaning the wound with peroxide. He feels five years old again; a little boy having antiseptic applied to a skinned knee. It stings terribly and he hisses in agony, attempting to pull away but her grip on his wrist is iron.

At last, she is wrapping fresh gauze around his knuckles. He knows she will tease him about this some weeks later, about what a baby he is and how he can take a dagger to the side without even cringing, but writhes in pain from a little hydrogen peroxide.

And now as she stands and heads toward the door of the cockpit, he cannot stop himself from calling after her.

"Fran, I -,"

She stops in the doorway, and looks back at him, his expression sullen and heavy with remorse. "You are forgiven."

And then she is gone.


	8. First Smile

It eludes him completely, but for whatever unfathomable reason, she seems five times as irresistible as usual. Or perhaps he's just a bi randy. He isn't really sure. But she is standing before the mirror in her room, running a solid silver brush through her immaculate white hair that floats around her body, free from it's ponytail. There has only been one other time when he has seen her hair down, and just thinking about it only excites him further. He hadn't even meant to stop in the doorway and stare, but passing by on his way to the cockpit, he just couldn't resist.

"You know," he says, grinning mischievously as he leans against the doorframe, "you should wear your hair down more often."

She pays him no mind, continuing to comb her hair as though he wasn't even there.

"Pulling it up is far simpler," she reasons.

"Yes," he agrees, moving to stand behind her so he can meet her eyes through her reflection in the mirror, "but, it looks _far_ lovelier like this."

He places a hand on her shoulder and uses the other to toy with one of the snowy ringlets. He curls the lock around one of his fingers before slowly unraveling it again.

"Perhaps some other time," she replies, gathering it up near the crown of her head.

But he stops her, pulling her hands away and placing them at her sides, and watches in the mirror as her eyes narrow.

"No," he says, "I think now is a _perfect_ time."

To his amazement, her glower turns to an awkward smile as her hair cascades down around her, "You… think it fair?"

He smiles discretely, resting his hands on her shoulders again, "Very fair indeed."

She gazes back to her own reflection, a distinct glimmer in her eyes as she analyzes her appearance.

"Truly?"

"Truly."

He watches the corners of her lips curl upward and he can catch a glimpse of her pearly white fangs. And it is very slight, but he can see a soft blush spreading across her cheeks, an alluring contrast against her umber complexion.

"You… you find me beautiful?"

He wonders if no one has ever told her, and the thought disappoints him.

"You feel the need to ask?"

She stares at the floor, "We Viera do not concern ourselves with such trivial matters. All Viera are beautiful, that is simply the way of it. We feel no need to compliment each other."

His brow furrows as he gazes at her once again blasé expression.

"Quite a shame, if you ask me, to not inform a beautiful woman of just how beautiful she really is."

"You think it?" she asks and the smile on his lips is genuine.

"I do."

She smiles back, and her seeming shyness baffles him. But he is pleased nonetheless to see her angelic face bearing an expression besides indifference.

"… Thank you," she murmurs.

He gives her shoulders a reassuring squeeze, smiling at her in the mirror.

"My pleasure, love."

With a soft flick of her hair, he leaves her to her business and reluctantly returns to his. He grins as enters the cockpit and begins to the plot the destination coordinates for Bhujerba. He should compliment her more often.


	9. First Argument

Their relationship was on the rocks. Wait a minute, that didn't sound right. What is he thinking? 'Relationship'? Ha, that's a good one. He can't even remember the last time he had a date, and his Viera copilot certainly doesn't qualify. Though he supposes it's his own fault they are having trouble, his own fault for being so damn stubborn and argumentative. Perhaps if he hadn't been so arrogant, they wouldn't be in this predicament.

He stares dismally at his shackles, knowing how easily the lock on the second-rate manacles could be tripped and he could be free in an instant. But the leery guard outside their cell keeps him from succumbing to temptation.

Casting a hopeful glance over at his partner, she has already shed her cuffs without notice and is perched on a rock only a few feet away. He smiles at her sheepishly, but her only response is a rather menacing glare and he hastily looks away. Not good, he thinks. It will definitely require a great deal of persuasion for her to forgive him for _this_.

He coughs awkwardly, "So, uh… any ideas?"

"You got us in here."

So it is officially his job to get them out.

"Ha," he laughs guiltily, "So I did..."

She says nothing more to him and the cell is deathly quiet save the rambunctious brawl of other inmates outside. Oh, how he hates Nalbina.

A few more hours pass in the same self-imposed silence and their guard has moved on to another cell in some way off part of the prison. He belatedly wonders why they are the only ones who are locked up.

He stands from his makeshift seat and stretches, yawning loudly and rubbing his sore tailbone.

"So," he says, hoping to lighten the mood as he quickly trips the lock of his irons and slides them off his wrists, "What say you we figure a way out, hm?"

She scowls at him as she slips off her rock and strides toward the far left corner of the cell where she loosens the grated door into the cell next door that is currently unoccupied and unlocked. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief - that was the reaction he'd been hoping for, because in all honestly, he was a complete loss for any ideas on how to escape. So he follows her through the newly open passageway into the next cell and out into the expanse of the underground prison where the populace of inmates is free to mill around.

The ground is uneven and rocky as he trails her after toward whatever means of escape she had sniffed out. The thought sounds strangely vulgar to him, as though he had been referring to her as stray mutt or common hyena. He mentally kicks himself, attempting to reorganize his thoughts, afraid he might offend her though he said nothing aloud. Although, he often wonders whether she can read minds with her uncanny ability to sense the thoughts and emotions of others.

She weaves her way through the subterranean labyrinth, him following compliantly, neither saying a word until she reaches a far-off corner of the prison; a dead end. But he knows better than to criticize and or question, more so because of her foul mood than her sharp instincts, only handing her a small hand bomb he managed to smuggle past the guards while they were searching them when she outstretches her palm. He clearly comprehends her logic of selecting such a place; the wall here is worn down and weak, and is located in such a remote niche of the prison that the attention attracted by the explosion will be little or none, allowing them a relatively clean escape.

He puts a good twenty feet between him and the wall as she scrapes the fuse against the stone, a visible spark jumping from the friction and lighting it, sets it against the barrier and hurriedly moves to join him. Once it blasts and the smoke has cleared, she is loping down the corridor they've blown into, paying little or no mind to the fact that she has left him behind. He scratches the back of his head, wincing. Yes, a _great_ deal of persuasion, he thinks as he jogs after her.

As he catches up, he analyzes the torch-lit passage that clearly gets a lot of foot traffic. He grins; she must've known this was here as well. What would he do without her, he thinks.

Later that evening when they have made a safe getaway on the _Strahl_, loot and all, and he has them anchored back in Rabanstre, he cautiously pokes his head into her bedroom, half expecting her to hurl her new silver hairbrush at his head. But instead, he finds her standing before her full-length mirror, fixing an exquisite silver hair ornament instead of her helm on the crown of her head. He smiles as he dares to take another step into the room.

"You know, silver really is your color."

She does not look at him as she straightens the decoration and begins to fix her ponytail, "Thank you."

"Look, Fran, I really am sorry about that whole mess with Ba'Gamnan. It's just -,"

"You could have gotten us both killed," she interrupts him, a certain edge to her calm voice.

He rubs the back of his head in shame, "I know. I'm sorry."

"Apologies do not fix everything, Balthier," she replies coldly, still refusing to make eye contact.

She is shocked when he gets down on his knees and takes her hand in his, mischief hiding behind his innocent smile.

"Then, please, tell me what it is you would have me do," he croons, placing a long, slow kiss on her knuckles.

He watches, amused, as her cheeks flush pink.

"Because I assure you, milady, I would go to any length, if only you would forgive me."

He kisses her hand once more.

Her eyes are glassy and she can feel her heart fluttering as he kisses her a third time and gets to his feet. He pulls her against his chest, wraps his arms around her shoulders, and smiles, knowing he has won when he feels her timidly, hesitantly, embrace him back.

He's a sky pirate, he thinks, and a sky pirate always gets what he wants.


	10. First Score

He was a smooth-talker; oh, yes, he was. He always has been. He calls it his 'gift', and a gift it is.

He's grown so accustomed to just letting a few choice words roll off his tongue and watching as people fall to their knees, groveling at his feet. It was actually rather convenient. Honestly, he couldn't think of a more efficient natural endowment. He can easily coax a different girl into bed every night, and it makes haggling with shopkeepers much less strenuous. In fact, he has yet to meet a woman, or man for that matter, that can't be persuaded by his silver tongue - until Fran. The woman who can easily ignore him in situations that would have other girls drooling out the sides of their mouths and falling all over themselves. The woman who can look him right in the eye and not blush or stutter when he flashes that dashing smile. The only woman who can _resist_ him.

He found it rather maddening at first, the way she would shrug off his flirtations like most women would their clothes. But in time, he grew to enjoy her apathy and disinterest; it was motivation to try harder. And that was when it became clear to him. He'd found a new challenge, although it still seemed strange. Women had never _been_ a challenge. Serving as judge had been a challenge, plundering the Archadian treasury had been a challenge, but women? What, oh what, has the world come to, when he finds himself tripping over his own feet trying to win the heart of his Viera copilot.

And now, he sits contemplating all this as he plots his next endeavor. Women have never made him think this hard. Then again, most women are not like Fran.

He grimaces, recalling that time a few months back when he'd been attempting to sweet-talk his way out of a rather sticky situation involving a prison break, a quite petulant Fran, and a solid silver hairbrush. Fortunately, it had ended in his favor with a very embarrassed Viera's arms around his middle. He smiles at that portion of the memory. That had been the only time she had resigned from her stoic warrioress act. And since then, she has been less wary of his touch, or how close they sit at restaurants.

He stares across the boardwalk out at the crystal blue waters of Balfonheim, wondering what he could possibly try that he hasn't already attempted. There have been nights where he has laid awake until sunrise dyes the sky pink, pondering on her. How can he possibly win her?

She is sitting beside him, studying the way the waves roll against the port. She has never seen the ocean, and he knows this. So, when they decided to take a short time off from pirating, he knew the first place to bring her. And the way she breathes deeply the sea air and closes her eyes when the warm ocean breezes ruffle her hair lets him know that he selected well. How he loves to see her enjoying herself.

"I take Balfonheim is to your liking?" he chuckles as she exhales indulgently, running a hand through her luxurious white hair.

She only fixes him with a delicate smile and a contented gleam in her ruby eyes before gazing out at the sea again.

He scoots his chair closer to hers, leaning in her direction on the armrest.

His voice is velvety in her ear as he whispers: "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Never in my life have I looked upon something so blue," she replies, less than swayed by his effort to seduce her. "Gazing out at the sea, I feel pleased for my journey."

She gives him that little smile again and he laughs to himself.

"Glad of it," he says pleasantly, smirking as he puts an arm around her shoulder and leans against her, "Because I certainly don't know where _I'd_ be without you."

She does not respond, only regards the calm, rolling ocean, but does not shy away from his touch. His smile softens as he brushes the hair from her face and gently twists a lock around his finger. A delicate blush colors her cheeks and she allows herself the minor liberty of just barely relaxing against his sturdy shoulder. He grins.

Five points to the dashing Sky Pirate.


	11. First Confession

'The verdict: she hates me.'

He gingerly touches his bruised cheek. Damn, did she ever have a good left-hook. This was going to hurt for hurt for days.

He watches her march off towards the aerodrome, thinking on how he has really done it this time. He wonders if she'll forgive him, or if he's just lost his best, and only, copilot. He shouts after her, but for naught. She has left him, standing alone and embarrassed in the middle of the bazaar, and he can swear he feels his cheek beginning to swell. He hopes she hasn't broken his jaw. Although something tells him he should be more concerned for his life instead. An angry Fran is the sort of thing one sees in their nightmares, the ones that are filled with bloodshed and screaming.

Seating himself on a vacant nearby bench, he pulls a small potion vial from his pocket and takes a sip, rubbing the rest on his wounded cheek. The pain begins to fade to a dull ache as he slips the empty vial back into his pocket and leans back against the bench. Maybe if he waits for a moment or two, the swelling will go down as well. But in the meantime, he contemplates what he could possibly do to make amends. It will have to be something big, and impressive, and probably worth a fair bit of gil, though he doubts she will be swayed by material items. What can he do?

He knows he hadn't meant to say it; a mere slip of the tongue. He had been thinking it, yes, but what man in their right mind _wouldn't_, walking behind her all the time? And considering that he vaguely recalls foreseeing his own death in her eyes, and the ferocity of her strike, it was easy to see that he had upset her. But he can't take it back now. He can only get down on his knees and apologize like he had last time, and hope she forgives him. But it was apparent she was in a far more hostile temper. For all he knows, she might be standing in the cockpit of the _Strahl_ right now, waiting to de-limb him when he returns. He shudders at the thought of a half-crazed Fran, dripping blood from head to toe. It was terrifying and erotic at the same time. He had better come up with something good, and fast, in case she decides to take off with the _Strahl_ and leave him stranded in Rabanstre with no money, and no ship.

He stands from the bench, satisfied with the lack of pain in his cheek, and scans the bazaar. There must be something that can move her to forgiveness, although, a part of him wishes he hadn't made such an awful mess of things. He wonders if things will ever get back to normal, because he can't imagine what he will do if they don't.

He skims over necklaces, rings, bracelets, weaponry, bracers, breastplates, helms, and everything in between, but she has told him time and time again that she is pleased with the armor she has and that she has no need for trivial things like jewelry. He is stuck between a rock and hard place.

"What would you recommend for a man who needs to be forgiven?" he asks a young shopkeeper at a jewelry stand.

She stares at him, smiling flamboyantly, "By who? A girl?"

He gives her his most charming grin, leaning on the counter, "Yes, a very lovely girl."

The girl blushes in spite of herself, giggling at his flirtation, "Might I suggest an Opal Ring? Not only are they beautiful, but they are supposed to posses mystic powers in battle as well."

"She actually isn't very fond of jewelry."

"Oh… then perhaps a fresh Rose Corsage?"

"I doubt she would need one. She isn't the oblivious type."

"Um, what about a Nishijin Belt? They're very fashionable up in Archades, so I've heard."

"_Ultima_, if she had any _more_ trouble falling asleep, I don't know what I'd do."

"An Embroidered Tippet, maybe?"

"I'm afraid not. She's enough experience already."

"Winged Boots?"

"Being light on her feet comes naturally."

The shopkeeper huffs, "Just what kind of girl is she? Perfect?"

He grins smugly, "I would expect no less from a Viera."

He watches her impatient expression contort in shock and he laughs pleasantly.

"Perhaps I should have been a bit more specific."

The girl straightens herself, smoothing out her dress, "In that case, I have only one suggestion for you."

"And what would that be?" he beams.

She points across the way to a sundries stand, "Buy yourself a Phoenix Down and a couple of Hi-Potions and hope you make it out alive."

His eyes bulge as the image of a rampant Fran tearing him to pieces resurfaces but he only chokes it down and forces a chuckle, picking out a Gold Hairpin, "I believe I will take this instead."

"If I were you, I'd invest in a Dragon Helm from that shop down the way," she cautions him.

"Since when did I say I was shopping for myself?" he asks brightly, handing her the piece of Mystic Armor, "And besides, I don't wear hair ornaments."

She wraps the pin in tissue paper, packaging it in a small brown box and tying it with cheap string as he sets a satchel of gil on the stand. She hands him the box in exchange, shaking her head woefully.

"Good luck to you, sir. You'll be needing it."

He only grins at her, tossing the package in the air and catching it in the other hand as he walks away.

She is sitting cross-legged in the center of her bed, re-stringing her bow, when he returns. Not a good sign, he tells himself. He takes a cautious step into her room, startling her when he tosses a small package into her lap. Bow still in her hands, she double takes between him and the box, obviously rather perplexed. Perhaps he should have bought that Rose Corsage after all, he thinks comically.

"For you," he says in a low, velvety voice.

She stares at the package, and then back to him, and then back to the package before slowly setting her bow aside and picking up the little brown box. Her long fingers untie the twine and peel away the packaging with the utmost care. She removes the lid and peers at the mass of tissue paper before lifting it from the box, surprised at the weight of whatever was inside. Unwrapping the paper, she gapes at the intricate golden hairpiece. Her stunned gaze returns to him.

"Why?"

He smiles and moves to stand in front of her, "I know I cannot buy your forgiveness. But after I offended you so, and made such an idiot of myself at the bazaar, it felt wrong to return empty handed. It is my hope that you will accept it, and forgive me for being such a fool."

Her face is cold and indifferent as he slowly stoops to his knees and takes her hand, kissing it gently even though he knows well that the same trick never works twice.

"You are right," she replies stiffly. "My mercy cannot be purchased. Nor will you win me over with shallow and meaningless gestures."

"My dear," he whispers, worshiping her knuckles with his lips, "these gestures go deeper than you will ever acknowledge."

It is with those words that she feels something foreign awaken in the depths of her heart. Her body goes rigid, and he knows it, too.

"I am sorry, Fran."

He kisses each of her fingertips, slowly and indulgently, before rising to his feet and lifting the Gold Hairpin from beside her on the bed. He runs his fingers over the detailing as he removes the silver pin from her ponytail and fixes the new one in its place.


	12. First

He wonders how it would feel to throw himself in and out of her the way he does in his dreams, or how she would sound screaming his name when she comes. How would the sweat-slicked skin of her neck taste, and would sheleave scars up and down his back from being a tad too rough with those claws of hers? Would her breasts be that soft, or her backside that firm? Is her skin that smooth all the way down? Would she twist her fingers in his short bronze hair and nibble at his lip when he kissed her? And is the bed going to be going to be such a mess when they finish? Will the room be so hot that the windows are fogged over and he can see steam rising off their entangled bodies? When the day rolls around and he finally wins her over, is the sex going to be as amazing as he imagines?

He rolls over in his bed, arm tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow, ignoring the uncomfortable tightness of his boxers. He wouldn't deny it, he dreams of her often. But now, he lies awake - too restless for sleep - and thinks of her.

Stretching his arm out before him, he gazes at the brightly colored rings and bracelets that he is sure are hiding a very unattractive tan line. After all, he hasn't removed them since the day he'd put them on.

At first, he had thought the bold greens, blues, yellows, reds, and pinks too flamboyant and a bit over the top to be honest. But he had sported them anyway, reckoning they might support the luxurious image of a revered sky pirate, but more so because she had snagged them on their first raid together: the mansion of an incredibly wealthy and renowned Archadian gentry. Her own lack of interest in jewelry moved her to let him take them instead. Even though he had laughed at the way they looked against his white silk dress shirt and gold leather vest, he hasn't been without them since.

His mind is distracted as he thinks about the heavy silver earrings that were her gift as well, but his body is not and he pays no mind to the hand creeping lower on his body of its own free will.

He had wanted her to take the tiny golden clasps, telling her they would look elegant on her tall white ears, but she had turned him down, informing him that they made her remember things she'd rather not. He'd pierced his own ears that night, and the current discomfort in his lower regions makes him recall the way it felt.

As he begins something he hasn't done since he was fifteen years old and had just seen a girl naked for the first time, he drifts away into another fantasy. Images of her face flash by behind his closed eyelids as his lips part and he groans inwardly. In this dream, he doesn't think about how pathetic he is, only about how he is with her again, thrusting in and out at a bestial pace. He doesn't think about how he is actually alone in his bed, and that she is next door, asleep in her own. He doesn't think about anything, just how good it all feels, even though it's just a dream and cheap self-gratification. But dreams don't last, as he has learned many times, and he pulls away before he makes a mess, loathing himself. His mind resettles and he can't believe he stooped so low. She would be disgusted with him. Hell, he's disgusted with himself. He gives himself a moment, subduing the rest of his unfinished business, before he throws back the sheets and rises from bed. It is so late now he doesn't even bother with clothing and instead wanders out of his bedroom, forgoing the lights. In two steps he is at her door, staring at the activation switch, hesitating. While he does not wish to wake her if she is indeed sleeping, he knows his curiosity will get the better of him eventually. Better sooner than later, he thinks, pressing the switch. The door slides open and he sees her sitting in the center of her bed, wearing that fancy nightgown he bought for her a year back. Her eyes are closed, and the lights are on.

When he steps inside, they flutter open and she finds him standing in the doorway, all bare chest and boxers. Her eyes want to devour him whole, but she looks instead to his equally handsome, but sleep-deprived face, dark circles beneath his eyes and hair tousled to boot.

She must think me insane, he assumes belatedly. And from the puzzled look on her face, he realizes that his assumption has been confirmed.

After a moment, when he says nothing and only stands in the doorway awkwardly, her brows quirk in wonder.

"Yes?"

He glances hesitantly from her to his bare feet on the floor and back to her. Lifting his arm, he places a hand on the back of his shoulder before reluctantly meeting her eyes.

"Fran, what do you think of me?"

His question catches her off guard, and she finds herself stopping to ponder it.

"You are the only true family I have ever known," she replies quietly.

His legs carry him across the room to sit beside her on the bed. He looks her in the eye, his own irises blazing.

"That is truly how you think of me? As a brother, or a father?"

She seems startled by his sudden intensity, but does not back away.

"I did not meant to imply that," she amends, intrigued by his behavior.

This was very unlike her partner.

"If I am your family, then of what sort? What am I to you, Fran? What do you _think_ of me?" he urges her.

She pauses again, part of her wondering what in Ivalice has come over her partner, the other mulling over how to answer such a question.

After another moment, she responds slowly: "You are my partner, my companion, my captain, my family -,"

"Is that all I am worth to you? Are those things - a partner, a captain - what you will always see me as? Can I not be something more?" he interrupts calmly, drawing closer to her.

"What else would you have me say?" she asks, equally tranquil.

He smiles, rediscovering his confidence, and brushes her cheek with the back of his palm, "You know, I hadn't ever really thought on it."

Her eyes widen when he presses his lips against hers.

She is like a statue for a long moment before she finds the courage to uncertainly - clumsily - kiss him back. His lips move gently against hers just as he pulls away, his smile more wistful as he stands.

"Goodnight, Fran."

She watches, stunned, as he leaves. Her door slides shut behind him and she listens to him flop back into his own bed, his door closing as well. Her lips tremble and her head feels dizzy, and she cannot fathom why


	13. First Gift

He has very grudgingly agreed to return to Archades, although he finds it almost vexingly ironic that the first place she actually requests to visit is his former home. The thought would make him chuckle if he weren't in such a sour mood.

He sits wary and alone, head bowed, on the terrace of a tavern he frequented during his younger years, sipping a rather pricey beer, praying to Ultima no one recognizes him. He had asked numerous times for what possible reason she would want to come here, but to no avail. The only answer she gave was a short, simple 'I am looking for something.' The begrudging part of him had complained and asked if she couldn't find it elsewhere. She had said nothing, and set the coordinates.

He finds himself wishing she would hurry and finish whatever business she has in this dreadful city so they can hop back on the _Strahl_ and hightail it out of here. But after three hours, he hasn't seen hide nor hair of her. He's sure he must look conspicuous, sitting at the same table for three hours, working on his sixth or seventh beer - he's lost count. He can't help it; the alcohol calms him down somewhat. Then again, maybe it just makes him even more edgy.

As he eyes the crowd nervously, he is positive that he will see his father strolling down the avenue, talking nonsense to someone that isn't there. He can just imagine the old man's reaction. No doubt the doctor would make a spectacle the size of the empire itself and within moments the entire city would be erupting with rumors that the Prodigal Bunansa has indeed returned. The thought makes him sick to his stomach and he is tempted to upchuck all six - or was it seven? - beers he'd downed. The woman's a _Viera_ and she can't move _any_ faster, he thinks sorely, motioning for the waiter to refill his mug. Maybe if he drinks more he won't feel like barfing up the other seven, or maybe it was six.

He almost considers getting up and just going to _find_ her, but the possibility of running into an old acquaintance terrifies him to the core, so he roots himself to his chair and waits, more for Fran's return than his next beer. She'll probably disembowel him when she sees the tab. At least he'd die at the hands of a beautiful woman.

Yes sir, he thinks, he'd die a happy man despite the fact he hasn't laid her and that he's only nineteen and seven-tenths. Having Fran as the last thing he sees before everything goes black can't possibly that bad. Perhaps she'd rip his jugular vein from his throat with those claws of hers, or maybe she'd put his eyes out with the heels of her stilettos. Oh, would it ever be painful, but the idea of Fran getting to him before the Imperials or Ba'Gamnan do made it seem a bit more tolerable. Even if she tortures him inhumanely and draws out his death for as long as possible he thinks he can handle it. Hell, she can strap him down and slowly separate his skin from the muscle and he couldn't give a damn. The fact that it's Fran makes everything okay. The waiter returns with his drink and he starts into it gladly, gulping down the thick foam on the beer's surface. Thank Ultima for alcohol, he thinks, swallowing as much as he can in one go. As he does, the nausea quickly resurfaces and this time he really believes he will vomit. Leaning over the side of his chair he belches and prepares himself for the discomfort of retching, not caring that he is in a very public place, or that vomiting will undoubtedly attain him the attention he has worked so hard to avoid. But the pleasant whirring made only by the glossair rings on anything that flies distracts him just long enough to look up and see his partner at the handles of a shiny, new, two-person hover. Two thoughts cross his mind in that instant. One: how sexy she looks crouched over on the front of it. Two: he doesn't even want to know how much it cost. Although, number one seems absurdly more important. He still feels like puking, but not around Fran's new toy; Ultima forbid that he accidently splatter it with stomach bile.

She switches the craft into park and quickly dismounts, concerned that her captain has drank himself into a stupor again.

"You do not look well," she chides, straightening him back in his seat and draping his arm over her shoulder for support.

He suppresses another burp before grinning at her, somehow still sober, "It's the town, I swear."

She frowns at him, but isn't given the chance to reprimand him further as he points at the hover.

"Gee Fran, you never informed me you had a gift for stealing vehicles as well," he whispers smoothly.

"Balthier," she hisses, "simply because I am a sky pirate does not mean that everything I obtain I do so by illegal means."

She throws several hundred gil on the table before helping him to his feet and walking him to the vehicle.

"This is what you were looking for?" he asks, inspecting the hover as he climbs onto the back and leans back against the seat leisurely.

"Yes," is her answer as she mounts the front and starts it up with a quiet roar.

"And Archades just so happened to be the only city in Ivalice where you could purchase it?"

She looks back at him indifferently, "Draklor Laboratory has developed the finest technology in glossair-powered transportation."

"I know that," he half snarls, "In case you've -,"

"I have not forgotten," she replies quietly before he can finish.

He bites his lip and mentally kicks himself in the balls. He really needs to quit snapping at her. It's not her fault that his family has been dysfunctional since the day they buried his mother. He damns his temper to the deepest pits of Hell as the hover lifts effortlessly off the ground and they are soaring high above the Archadian terraces toward the Aerodrome.

"I -," he begins.

"You are forgiven," she answers.

He stares down guiltily at the people passing beneath them as she speeds along, clearly having driven one of these before.

"Fran, why did you buy it?"

At first she does not respond and he wonders if he has upset her. But as he reaches to touch her shoulder in apology, she answers pleasantly, "Think of it as a gift."

He grins and leans back in his seat again as they whizz past the Draklor Laboratories main complex.

A gift, he thinks, how thoughtful of her.


	14. First Lesson

"Oh, shit."

What is he supposed to do? He's never seen a wound like this, nor did he ever expect Fran to be the one to suffer it. He stares at it, wide-eyed and gnawing at his lip until he feels it split under his teeth.

It's raw and angry, seething and bubbling from the poison, and the flesh is split wide open in a very ragged, painful fashion. While he secretly hopes it won't scar her flawless body, that nausea issue he's been having as of late rears it's ugly head and he quickly leans aside and retches violently on the cobblestone. Over the sound of his own vomiting he thinks he hears her moan quietly in disgust, but thinks little of it seeing as it's not his fault that his stomach has been weak lately and that he's currently throwing up said organ.

When he finishes, he spits in a very ungentlemanly manner before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and turning back to her half-conscious body in his arms with a frail, sheepish grin.

"Sorry," he tells her. "It honestly doesn't look that bad."

Her breathing is shallow and her eyes repeatedly roll back into her head beneath fluttering eyelids. He really shouldn't lie to her, he thinks. And perhaps those first aid classes back at the Akademy shouldn't have been skipped either.

"Fran," he whispers, more to make sure that she's still with him rather than get her attention, "I need you to drink this, love."

He has uncorked the glass stopper of their last antidote vial and tilted it against her parted lips. She willingly takes all of it and swallows obediently, and he watches as the festering wound begins to calm and clear. But while the antidote may cleanse the wound on contact, it will take days to rid her body of the poison. And what's worse, they are hiding out in the courtyard while imperials swarm the grounds looking for them. She had told him that trying to plunder the Dalmascan royal treasury was a bad idea. And now as they lie low behind the hedges with not a single piece of treasure in their hands, he wishes he'd have listened to her. If something happens to her because he was too arrogant for his own good, he will never forgive himself. But more than anything, he hates those imperials and their damn magi. Leave it to Fran to pick the most inopportune moment to play the sacrificial lamb.

"Stay with me, Fran," he tells her mindfully. "I can't carry you and shoot people properly at the same time."

She smiles gently at her partner's ready supply of witty remarks, "Death does not frighten me, Balthier."

"I'm well aware of that," he chuckles. "But it scares the bloody hell out of me."

She only grins and closes her eyes, but her quiet breathing lets him know she's merely resting.

After a while, things quiet down and he's genuinely surprised; it was such a lame hiding spot. He almost feels like the kid who picked the worst place to hide in Hide-and-Go-Seek and _still_ wasn't found. He snickers before peeking out from behind the hedge to make sure the imperials weren't as clever as they thought and hadn't been waiting to ambush them when they tried to make their escape. Their stupidity astounds him after he picks off a lone stray soldier with the Altair and deems the coast officially clear.

"Alright, Fran," he murmurs, dabbing at the beads of perspiration on her forehead and then the blood on her abdomen that refused to stanch with his shirt sleeve. He would indeed be heartbroken if it left a mark on her smooth torso.

"Let's go," he continues as he lifts her from the ground. "You and me, love."

He drapes her arm over his shoulder and loops his own around her waist for as much support as he can muster. She's light as a feather, but he's tired and his own body seems to weigh three times its usual mass. Slowly, arduously, he drudges across the courtyard to the nearest exit from the palace grounds, praying that no one heard the gunshot besides the man it hit, who wouldn't be doing much of anything after that. Once they make it out and have rounded a corner to where Fran had parked the hover some hours earlier, he lays her on the back, adjusting her body accordingly so that she might be comfortable, and hopefully wouldn't fall off. He will readily admit that he has no clue how to drive this thing.

"Balthier," she rasps as he climbs onto the front of the hover and stares bewilderedly at the controls, "I will drive, if you wish."

"That is truly the most ludicrous thing I believe has ever left your mouth," he tells her, finally locating the source of power and activating it.

"We both know you do not know how," she replies.

He feels her sit up and lean unsteadily against his back.

"Well, then, perhaps it's time I learned. What do you say?"

She sighs and her warm breath tickles the back of his neck, making the fine hair stand on end.

"Very well. You drive, I will instruct."

He smirks; he likes the sound of that. She points to a foreign control and tells him to activate it, so he does and is rather pleased when the glossair rings on the bottom of the craft whir and glow and the hover lifts off the ground. As they take off at a blurring rate of speed toward the aerodrome under her precise direction, another thought occurs to him.

"Perhaps you could teach me how to treat wounds as well. Then, maybe next time I won't be at such a horrible a loss for assistance."

"If you wish," she answers.

She wraps her arms around his chest to hold herself steady as she gives a few more pointers.

Fran, he thinks roguishly, will make an excellent teacher.


	15. First Light

He hates himself. He_ loathes_ himself.

He hates his supposed 'good looks' and 'ways with women'. He hates his 'talent' and he hates his 'skill'. He even hates the _Strahl_; his pride and joy from the day he saved her from the scrap heap back in Archades. Why? Because none of it has gotten him anywhere. None of it has helped win her.

She says she thinks of him as her captain, her partner, her companion. Well, what the hell is that supposed to mean to him? What good is that going to do him? Being her captain, or partner-in-crime isn't going to snag him a place in her heart. She says he's the family she never had. Well, that's no good, because being a brother or father isn't going to get her in bed with him.

Maybe he just isn't good enough, he's just not up to her standards, or maybe she just doesn't care for him and he should stop lying to himself and trying to pretend like it isn't true, like there's always the possibility. But maybe he should just quit beating around the bush and finally come out and say it. But, then the fear he oh-so-loathes of ruining their relationship as _partners_ decides to mosey along and smother his resolve.

Oh well, he thinks, who needs resolve anyway?

And what if she pushes him away? After all he's just a hume, far below her heavenly superiority. He doesn't stand a chance against her, before her, or with her. This is why he's fallen into another bottomless pit of self-loathing. This, this is why he hates himself. But he just can't help it when he's around her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for almost a year and a half now and they hardly even touch and he's only kissed her once which was an awkward, clumsy, messy thing which he prefers not to recall. Thanks to her - to all of this - he doesn't even remember what sex feels like. He lost count months ago of how many times he thought on going to the local tavern and picking up a pretty girl for the night. Compared to dealing with Fran's indifference and lack of interest, it would have been like catching a chocobo with his pockets stuffed full of gysahl greens. Women flocked to him like chimeras in heat, and all he had to do was lay down a few choice words and their clothes would be flying off like a bat out of hell; a few more reasons to add to his swiftly lengthening list of self-despise. But maybe it's not even about the sex. Maybe it's about something else entirely that he doesn't even want to think about. That word, that damn four-letter word that teenagers mutter to each other over the course of their two-week flings. It's not that. He knows it isn't. He _prays_ it isn't. Because then he'll _really_ want to rip out his own heart and throw it on the ground. Because he doesn't need that kind of commitment or that kind of heartbreak when it doesn't work out or all falls apart. Because he doesn't want to feel that way about her, but he doesn't want her to be just another conquest either. Because then he'd _really_ be an asshole of the lowest, worst kind. And he doesn't want her to kill him. But most of all, he doesn't want her to _hate_ him, because then that would make two of them. And she doesn't need to be in the same boat. She should really be in a far bigger, far fancier, far more expensive boat on the other side of Ivalice. What he's really trying to tell himself is that she doesn't need _him_, and if she does, she _shouldn't_. She shouldn't want anything to do with him. But for reasons he cannot fathom, she has stuck around all this time, never complaining. She has forgiven and forgotten, she has put up with his bad temper and bad past, she has dealt with his arrogance and his impatience, she has picked him up off the floor all those drunken, miserable nights. The self-resentment rolls over him in waves.

He wants to remember the few precious times she smiled at his flirting, or laughed at his remarks. Hell, he even wants to remember that cumbersome, pathetic excuse for a kiss, but he's just too in love with hating himself. He needs a way to feel better, and a good fuck sounds like just the cure. But where is he supposed to find one? His partner certainly won't comply, even though he knows she's the only one who will satisfy. Reason number three-hundred and forty-two why he hates himself. He forces himself from his seat on his bed and stalks through his open doorway and down the hall. She is sitting in the cockpit, staring out the windshield as always and is admittedly frightened when he snatches her hand and kneels down in front of her. Ultima, he hopes this doesn't look like he thinks it does. Her ruby eyes are wide and startled when gazes up at her for a short instant. He thinks by now she would be used to him getting down on his knees. He's lost count of how many times he's done so. But maybe it's the fury swirling about in his own irises that scares her, and by all rights it should. She should be afraid of him right now.

He pulls open his white silk dress shirt and presses her hand into his bare chest. Her fingers tingle visibly with the warmth. And he knows she can feel his heart thudding beneath the flesh. He brushes her fingertips over the smooth skin that is lightly feathered with coarse hair that is almost too light in color to see and he feels a shudder run down his own spine. She is absolutely dumbfounded, her full lips parted just slightly to convey her loss for words as he runs her hand across his sculpted torso that is still partially concealed by his shirt. He runs her fingers over his pectoral and lets them just graze his nipple, watching her baffled expression twist into something between the lines of pleasure and repulsion, but he just keeps going. Because this isn't about love, that four letter word of condemnation, and it isn't about lust. It's not about affection, or caring. It's about proving something, to her, and himself.

He has her touch his ribs and his abs and finally his navel where another line of darker hair trails down, though he chooses not to follow it. And all the while she does not pull away. She only stares, eyes glazed and lips still parted, her confusion replaced by sheer fascination. He wonders if she has ever touched someone like this.

He finishes this strange exploration of his own body and frees her hand as he sheds his shirt to the cockpit floor and stands. She reminds him of a statue again, frozen in time with an expression he could never hope to read even if he wanted to. Reaching out, he takes her face in his hands and leans her forward against him, pressing her ear to the warm skin of his chest. He cradles her there, but doesn't touch her as he would like to. His brain tells him this is wrong and asks him if he's really as mentally sound as he claims. But he doesn't care, because he has won and for this moment, this victory is the most glorious thing he has seen or felt since the first time laid eyes on her. He watches her close her eyes and feels her soft breath against his skin as she inhales and exhales at a steady rate, as though she'd fallen asleep against him.

This isn't a conquest, but it isn't anything close to love. In fact, he's not sure what it's about. But something is here, living and breathing and heartbreakingly tragic between them, and that is the only thing that matters. He does not smile as he gently pushes her away, leaving his shirt where it lays in a wrinkled heap on the floor. Nor does he look back as he strides back across the cockpit, out the door and down the hallway, leaving her confused, upset, and alone. Pay back, he thinks, for all the times she's left him the same way.

Reason number three-hundred and forty-three why he hates himself.


	16. First Revelation

He wishes he was dreaming.

Because he doesn't even know what to think when he walks past her open door and sees her sitting at the foot of her bed, legs pulled against her torso and face buried in her knees. Because when Fran cries, it means that the universe has imploded in a fiery explosion of doom and that they are all actually dead. Although, he then wonders why he was sent to the same place as her anyway.

She doesn't make a sound, and internally, he asks himself if perhaps he is just overreacting. But honestly, Viera or not, who sits on the floor curled up in a ball just for the Hell of it? So, despite her mortal silence, and lack of facial visibility, he knows that something has brought her to tears. And in the cold, tangled reaches of his heart, he knows that he is once again at fault. This revelation locks him in place at her door and he cannot move or speak as though he's just stepped in fresh cement and been gagged all at the same time. But surely she must know that he's standing in her doorway, staring at her stupidly while she's in the midst of the Viera rendition of 'breakdown'. Surely she heard his loud, abhorrent hume footsteps coming down the hall. Though, as he stands rooted to the floor and her ears don't even twitch at the sound of his unsteady breathing, he thinks, perhaps, she didn't.

He belatedly wonders if she is simply doing that on purpose. Because she knows he can't keep his guard up when she's unhappy, and faking sorrow would be the most effective way to tilt the scale in her direction. She knows how easy it is for her to turn him into a pathetic, regretful excuse for a man with a single sideways glance. But even with this knowledge at his disposal, he still feels yesterday's resolve dissipate like sand in an hourglass. And besides, Fran has never been the vengeful, just-for-spite type of girl anyway. He would truly be shocked if she ever _actually_ attempted to take advantage of his not-so-well-known guilty conscience. And if she is upset, he supposes it is only natural and that he probably deserves this. His cruelty the other day was immeasurable and he thoroughly believes she has every right to despise every particle of his being.

"What have I done?"

She is as immaculate as ever as she looks up at him, with not a single tear staining her face and no trace of bloodshot eyes. Her hair is lacking any tangles and her nightgown is white, pristine, and unwrinkled. He wonders how she can appear so untouched in such an obvious state of distress.

He is baffled by her question and the only response he can muster is a quiet "What?".

"I do not understand," she replies softly, "Why do you do this?"

For a moment, he is as utterly confused as she is, and then... he remembers.

He summons whatever little courage remains in the pit of his empty stomach, and slowly approaches her.

"Fran, I..."

"What have I done?" she asks again, her melodic hiss gradually entrancing him as he stoops down in front of her.

The forgotten shirt he had meant to fetch still waits in the cockpit, but suddenly he has lost all intent of retrieving it. He is so close to her now that he can feel her warm breath on his bare skin and this proximity is driving him to pieces.

"Why do you punish me so, my love?" he whispers beneath her chin, her soft white curls brushing his cheeks, "Why must you persist in this torture?"

"Why do you do these things?" she endures, "What have I done?"

Her voice is quaking softly, so he draws just a little bit closer to the skin of her neck and murmurs, "Hush now, my love. Tears have no place between us."

Her body goes still as his lips brush her neck. And as she glances out her window at the golden sky of dusk, she realizes something that both of them have yet to fully understand.

As he continues to whisper comforting words against her skin, 'You and I' are the only ones that register.


End file.
